The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works Of William Wordsworth Vol. VI, by William Wordsworth and Ed William Knight.

The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Arth. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Küsnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves.[559]

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells,

Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go,

From the dread summit of the Queen [JE]

Of mountains, through a deep ravine,

Where, in her holy chapel, dwells

"Our Lady of the Snow."

The sky was blue, the air was mild;

Free were the streams and green the bowers;

As if, to rough assaults unknown,

The genial spot had ever shown

A countenance that as sweetly smiled—[560]

The face of summer-hours.

And we were gay, our hearts at ease;

With pleasure dancing through the frame

We journeyed; all we knew of care—[561]

Our path that straggled here and there;

Of trouble—but the fluttering breeze;

Of Winter—but a name.

If foresight could have rent the veil

Of three short days—but hush—no more!

Calm is the grave, and calmer none

Than that to which thy cares are gone,

Thou Victim of the stormy gale;

Asleep on Zurich's shore!

Oh Goddard! what art thou?—a name—

A sunbeam followed by a shade!

Nor more, for aught that time supplies,

The great, the experienced, and the wise:

Too much from this frail earth we claim,

And therefore are betrayed.

We met, while festive mirth ran wild,

Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn,

Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave,

A sea-green river, proud to lave,

With current swift and undefiled,

The towers of old Lucerne.

We parted upon solemn ground

Far-lifted towards the unfading sky;

But all our thoughts were then of Earth,

That gives to common pleasures birth;

And nothing in our hearts we found

That prompted even a sigh.

Fetch, sympathising Powers of air,

Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands,

Herbs moistened by Virginian dew,

A most untimely grave to strew,

Whose turf may never know the care [562]

Of kindred human hands!

Beloved by every gentle Muse

He left his Transatlantic home:

Europe, a realised romance,

Had opened on his eager glance;

What present bliss!—what golden views!

What stores for years to come!

Though lodged within no vigorous frame,

His soul her daily tasks renewed,

Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings

High poised—or as the wren that sings

In shady places, to proclaim

Her modest gratitude.

Not vain is sadly-uttered praise;

The words of truth's memorial vow

Are sweet as morning fragrance shed

From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred;

As evening's fondly-lingering rays,[563]

On Righi's silent brow.

Lamented youth! to thy cold clay

Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;

And piety shall guard the Stone [564]

Which hath not left the spot unknown

Where the wild waves resigned their prey—

And that which marks thy bed.[565]

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee,

Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;

This tribute from a casual Friend

A not unwelcome aid may lend,

To feed the tender luxury,

The rising pang to smother.

The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted Mother felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards.—Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.—W. W. 1837.

References to Young Goddard occur in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal, as follows:—"Lucerne, Aug. 16.—... In bounded Henry Robinson, ... with two young men he has picked up on the road...." "Aug. 17.—The two young Gentlemen, Mr. R.'s companions, called upon us to walk at 7 o'clock; and very pleasing youths we found them, one an American, the other a Scotsman, by birth, students from Geneva, come out on foot for a month's excursion." "Top of Righi, Sat. 19th.—Our pleasant ingenuous companions gone. We parted immediately after breakfast." "Lausanne, Sept. 20.—Our joy was damped by hearing from Mr. Mulloch, of the melancholy fate of that very interesting youth, Mr. Goddard, with whom we parted on the top of the Righi. He, with Mr. Trotter, descended to pursue their way to Zurich, in which lake he was unfortunately drowned two days afterwards; we towards Lauritz, but all in the hope of meeting again at Altorf.... Mr. G.'s mother is in America.... Seldom have I seen so promising a youth." "Sat. 23rd. Geneva.—Met Mr. Trotter. The loss of poor Goddard was occasioned by a sudden squall, which upset one of the worthless boats, made of thin planks, flat bottomed. Mr. T. being a good swimmer, and on the side nearest the shore, reached land, when looking for his companion, he had disappeared, had been sucked under the boat, and was never seen from the first moment. Great humanity was shown by the people in the neighbourhood on this melancholy occasion. The body was found, and afterwards buried in the churchyard at Küsnacht, a village on the east shore of the lake of Zurich. A discourse in German was delivered by an old Priest, after the interment, a copy of which Mr. T. showed us; and which Mr. R. and W. were much pleased with, for the pathetic simplicity of the expression. It was intended to be sent to the poor mother of the deceased."

and the concluding passage of the prefatory note to the edition of 1822, suggest another passage in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal. "Aug. 19.—Dined at Goldau. This cottage-inn is built, as several other houses are, on the side of the road surrounded by masses of fallen rock: chapel close by: all walked to the ruins: sate for a long time upon an immense mass of the fallen mountain. It is an awful and an affecting place. We were surprised at the extent of the desolation, especially when we looked up to the mountain whence it had proceeded. The rent, high above us, appeared so trifling that we could not but wonder how all those mighty blocks had ever been piled upon so narrow a space. Huge masses of rock on every side of us. It is aptly called "the valley of Stones." A river had thridded this once lovely and still interesting valley; but this, with the green meadows which it fertilized, is buried; and the lake of Lawerz below driven into narrower compass.... Three villages, with their inhabitants, had been completely destroyed."

"Wednesday, 19th September. Lausanne.—We met with some pleasant Englishmen, from whom we heard particulars concerning the melancholy fate of our young Friend, the American, seen by us for the last time on the top of the Righi. The tidings of his death had been first communicated, but a few hours before, by Mr. Mulloch. We had the comfort of hearing that his friend had saved himself by swimming, and had paid the last duties to the stranger, so far from home and kindred, who lies quietly in the churchyard of Küsnacht on the shores of Zurich." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)

On the 24th Nov. 1821, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Henry Crabb Robinson:—"... Amongst the Poems (the Tour on the Continent) is one to the memory of poor Goddard, which probably never would have been written but for your suggestion. How often do I think of that night when you first introduced that interesting youth to us! At this moment I see in my mind's eye the lighted Salon, you in your great-coat, and the two slender tall figures following you!"—Ed.

XXXIII

SKY-PROSPECT—FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE

Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape

Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon,

The Ark, her melancholy voyage done!

Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape;

There, combats a huge crocodile—agape

A golden spear to swallow! and that brown

And massy grove, so near yon blazing town,

Stirs and recedes—destruction to escape!

Yet all is harmless—as the Elysian shades

Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose—

Silently disappears, or quickly fades:

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows

That for oblivion take their daily birth

From all the fuming vanities of Earth!

The only allusion in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal to any noteworthy "sky-prospect from the plain of France," occurs when they rested at Fontainbleau. "Sept. 30.—... Seeing the forest rise at the end of a long vista of trees, our guide said that from that point we should have a fine view. Passed through the old-fashioned French flower garden, with its large sheet of water.... Surprised by the view from the hill, first towards the palace, and the expanse beyond, and immediately opposite this (what we so little expected to see) a rocky dell in that sandy region; most curious, the bank before us scattered thickly with rocks, by that dim light appearing like a large village. Glorious crimson light in the west, all the rest of the sky a clear cloudless blue. The evening star very large, and alone. An impressive silence in the air, so that we heard the sounds from the distant town distinctly."

"Saturday, 29th September. Fontainbleau.—In the very heart of the Alps, I never saw a more wild and lonely spot, yet curious in the extreme, and even beautiful. Thousands of white bleached rocks, mostly in appearance not much larger than sheep, lay on the steep declivities of the dell among bushes and low trees, heather, bilberries, and other forest plants. The effect of loneliness and desert wildness was indescribably increased by the remembrance of the Palace we had left not an hour before. The spot on which we stood is said to have been frequented by Henry the IVth. when he wished to retire from his court and attendants. A few steps more brought us in view of fresh ranges of the forest, hills, plains, and distant lonely dells. The sunset was brilliant—light clouds in the west, and overhead a spotless blue dome. As we wind along the top of the Steep, the views are still changing—the plain expands eastward, and again appear the white buildings of Fontainbleau, with something of romantic brightness in the fading light; for we had tarried till a star or two reminded us it was time to move away. In descending, we followed one of the long straight tracks that intersect the forest in all directions. Bewildered among those tracks, we were set right by a party of wood-cutters, going home from their labour." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.

XXXIV

ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE

Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,

Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son

Of England—who in hope her coast had won,

His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er?

Well—let him pace this noted beach once more,

That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;[JF]

That saw the Corsican his cap and bells

Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror!—

Enough: my Country's cliffs I can behold,

And proudly think, beside the chafing sea,[566]

Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,

And folly cursed with endless memory:

These local recollections ne'er can cloy;

Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!

Near the Town of Boulogne, and overhanging the Beach, are the remains of a Tower which bears the name of Caligula, who here terminated his western Expedition, of which these sea-shells were the boasted spoils. And, at no great distance from these Ruins, Buonaparte, standing upon a mound of earth, harangued his "Army of England," reminding them of the exploits of Cæsar, and, pointing towards the white cliffs upon which their standards were to float. He recommended also a subscription to be raised among the Soldiery to erect on that Ground, in memory of the Foundation of the "Legion of Honour," a Column,—which was not completed at the time we were there.—W. W. 1822.

"Embarked in a small vessel; wind contrary. The vessel struck upon a sandbank. Then was driven with violence upon a rocky road in the harbour. Tide was ebbing very fast." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Monday, 29th October. Boulogne.—We walked to Buonaparte's Pillar, which, on the day when he harangued his soldiers (pointing to the shores of England whither he should lead them to conquest), he decreed should be erected in commemoration of the Legion of Honour then established. The pillar is seen far and wide, unfinished, as the intricate casing of a scaffolding loftier than itself, shows at whatever distance it is seen. It is said the Bourbons intend to complete the work, and give it a new name; but I think it more probable that the scaffolding may be left to fall away, and the Pile of marble remain strewn round, as it is, with unfinished blocks, an undisputed Monument of the Founder's vanity and arrogance; and so it may stand as long as the brick towers of Caligula have done, a remnant of which yet appears on the cliffs. We walked on the ground which had been covered by the army that dreamt of conquering England, and were shown the very spot where their Leader made his boastful speech.

"On the day fixed for our departure from Boulogne, the weather being boisterous and wind contrary, the Packet could not sail, and we trusted ourselves to a small vessel, with only one effective sailor on board. Even Mary was daunted by the Breakers outside the Harbour, and I descended into the vessel as unwillingly as a criminal might go to execution, and hid myself in bed. Presently our little ship moved; and before ten minutes were gone she struck upon the sands. I felt that something disastrous had happened; but knew not what till poor Mary appeared in the cabin, having been thrown down from the top of the steps. There was again a frightful beating and grating of the bottom of the vessel, water rushing in very fast. A young man, an Italian, who had risen from a bed beside mine, as pale as ashes, groaned in agony, kneeling at his prayers. My condition was not much better than his; but I was more quiet. Never shall I forget the kindness of a little Irish woman who, though she herself, as she afterwards said, was much frightened, assured me even chearfully that there was no danger. I cannot say that her words, as assurances of safety, had much effect upon me; but the example of her courage made me become more collected; and I felt her human kindness even at the moment when I believed that we might be all going to the bottom of the sea together; and the agonizing thoughts of the distress at home were rushing on my mind." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.

XXXV

AFTER LANDING—THE VALLEY OF DOVER

NOV. 1820

Where be the noisy followers of the game

Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that passed

Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast,

And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame.

Peace greets us;—rambling on without an aim

We mark majestic herds of cattle, free

To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea;

And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim

The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound

Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight,

While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,

Here only serve a feeling to invite

That lifts the spirit to a calmer height,

And makes this [567] rural stillness more profound.

We mark majestic herds of cattle free

To ruminate.

This is a most grateful sight for an Englishman returning to his native land. Every where one misses, in the cultivated scenery abroad, the animating and soothing accompaniment of animals ranging and selecting their own food at will.—W. W. 1822.

"Dover, Wed., 8th Nov.—At 11 o'clock we took coach and thoroughly enjoyed our journey between the green pastures of Kent, besprinkled with groups of trees, and bounded by hedgerows. The scattered cattle quietly selecting their own food was a cheering, and a home-feeling sight." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"It was, I think, 10 o'clock when we left Dover. The day was pleasant, and every English sight delightful, the fields sprinkled with cattle, the hedgerows, the snug small cottages, the pretty country-houses. Many a time we said to each other, 'What a pleasant country this must appear to the eyes of a Frenchman!'" (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.

XXXVI

AT DOVER [JG]

From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase

Of wonder, I have watched [568] this sea-side Town,

Under the white cliff's battlemented crown,

Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace:

The streets and quays are thronged, but why disown

Their natural utterance:[569] whence this strange release

From social noise—silence elsewhere unknown?—

A Spirit whispered, "Let all wonder cease;

Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set free

Thy sense from pressure of life's common din;

As the [570] dread Voice that speaks from out the sea

Of God's eternal Word, the Voice of Time

Doth deaden, shocks of tumult,[571] shrieks of crime,

The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin."

XXXVII

DESULTORY STANZAS,

Is then the final page before me spread,

Nor further outlet left to mind or heart?

Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read,

How can I give thee licence to depart?

One tribute more: unbidden feelings start

Forth from their coverts; slighted objects rise;

My spirit is the scene of such wild art

As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies,

Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies.

All that I saw returns upon my view,

All that I heard comes back upon my ear,

All that I felt this moment doth renew;

And where the foot with no unmanly fear

Recoiled—and wings alone could travel—there

I move at ease; and meet contending themes

That press upon me, crossing the career

Of recollections vivid as the dreams

Of midnight,—cities, plains, forests, and mighty streams.

Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit

Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew,

Who triumphed o'er diluvian power!—and yet

What are they but a wreck and residue,

Whose only business is to perish!—true

To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons of Time

Labour their proper greatness to subdue;

Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime

Where life and rapture flow in plenitude sublime.[JH]

Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge

Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone!

Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge

Of Monte Rosa—there on frailer stone

Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau's cone;

And, from that arch, down-looking on the Vale

The aspect I behold of every zone;

A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale,

Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Winter's icy mail!

Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern Forks,[JI]

Down the main avenue my sight can range:

And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks

Within them, church, and town, and hut, and grange,

For my enjoyment meet in vision strange;

Snows, torrents;—to the region's utmost bound,

Life, Death, in amicable interchange;—

But list! the avalanche—the hush profound

That follows—yet more awful than that awful sound![572]

Is not the chamois suited to his place?

The eagle worthy of her ancestry?

—Let Empires fall; but ne'er shall Ye disgrace

Your noble birthright, ye that occupy

Your council-seats beneath the open sky,[JJ]

On Sarnen's Mount,[JK] there judge of fit and right,

In simple democratic majesty;

Soft breezes fanning your rough brows—the might

And purity of nature spread before your sight!

From this appropriate Court, renowned Lucerne

Calls [573] me to pace her honoured Bridge [JL]—that cheers

The Patriot's heart with pictures rude and stern,

An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years.

Like portraiture, from loftier source, endears

That work of kindred frame, which spans the lake

Just at the point of issue, where it fears

The form and motion of a stream to take;

Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a snake.[JM]

Volumes of sound, from the Cathedral rolled,

This long-roofed Vista penetrate—but see,

One after one, its tablets, that unfold

The whole design of Scripture history;

From the first tasting of the fatal Tree,

Till the bright Star appeared in eastern skies,

Announcing, One was born mankind to free;

His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice;

Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes.

Our pride misleads, our timid likings kill.

—Long may these homely Works devised of old,

These simple efforts of Helvetian skill,

Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold

The State,—the Country's destiny to mould;

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust

Of servile opportunity to gold;

Filling the soul with sentiments august—

The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just!

No more; Time halts not in his noiseless march—

Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid flood;

Life slips from underneath us, like that arch

Of airy workmanship whereon we stood,[574]

Earth stretched below, heaven in our neighbourhood.

Go forth, my little Book! pursue thy way;

Go forth, and please the gentle and the good;

Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say

That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future Lay.

Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal of this Continental Tour contains the modest entry, made at "Paris, Monday, Oct. 2nd.—... I shall here close these very imperfect notices, commenced at D.'s request; and with a notion, on my part, that they might be useful when she wrote her Journal: but soon finding that, with such a view, mine was a superfluous labour, I should not have had the resolution to go on, except at Wm.'s desire, and from the feeling that my Daughter, and perhaps her brothers, might one day find pleasure, should they ever have the good fortune to trace our steps, in recognising objects their Mother had seen."

See Dorothy Wordsworth's Itinerary of the Tour (Note A), in the Appendix to this volume.—Ed.

XXXII ELEGIAC STANZAS

XXXIII SKY-PROSPECT—FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE

XXXIV ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE

XXXV AFTER LANDING—THE VALLEY OF DOVER NOV. 1820

XXXVI AT DOVER[JG]

XXXVII DESULTORY STANZAS,

XXXII

ELEGIAC STANZAS

XXXIII

SKY-PROSPECT—FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE

XXXIV

ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE

XXXV

AFTER LANDING—THE VALLEY OF DOVER

NOV. 1820

XXXVI

AT DOVER [JG]

XXXVII

DESULTORY STANZAS,